


À la rose s’assemble (that blends with the rose)

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Flashback, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, Gentleness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trauma, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22726246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: London is burning.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	À la rose s’assemble (that blends with the rose)

* * *

London is burning.

Not literally, of course not – the first time was bad enough – but it feels like that, for Crowley. It’s that time of year, that time of societal pressure that the Instagram-hungry adore; red roses on the streets and couples fighting on corners, passion and pressure; expectation and ecstasy, let-down after let-down, tears and rows, blankets and candles.

It _hurts_ Crowley on all sides – the love, the hatred, the shatter of china – digs beneath his bones like a worm beneath his skin, digs in tight, leaves him floundering on the street on the way back to his flat after picking up some chocolates for Aziraphale. He stumbles beneath it, beneath the memory of the previous summer, books burning all around, sparks in his eyes, in his ears, desperately seeking –

_Somebody killed my best friend_

He turns on the spot, looking at them all passing by, innocent and smiling and oblivious, with bunches of flowers and boxes of chocolates and clear expectations of proposals that won’t come about tonight and like some idiot who’s decided to stop right in the centre of a dodgeball game, it pounds into him, pounds him down to his knees, the voices of the disappointed and the excited, all around and far away like flames _burning -_

_You said you wanted to marry me you **said** that I thought we were going out tonight oh I love you I love you so much and that’s why I think we should break up Carol and Dave are having their wedding in September I want mine in June why do you love her and not me we’re going here but I wanted to go here not these I have a nut allergy the colours don’t match take a selfie I hate roses I hate flowers I hate earrings I hate this ring I hate you I hate you I love you I hate you I love you I hate you _

_Bastards. All of you._

The clouds break above, the rain spills down. He raises his eyes to it, his chin, his hair, letting it drip down his cheeks like tears, girls shrieking and hiding beneath their partner’s jackets for cover, dashing along in their heels around him.

His hands tremble against the pavement, gripping at the gravel, squeeze and collapse the cardboard of the box of Malteser truffles he’s brought; Aziraphale’s new personal favourite. Not just Maltesers, Malteser truffles. Unwrapping each one with pleasure, nodding at something Crowley is saying, offering him one only be turning down, shrugging lightly and popping them into his own, smiling mouth – and his grip immediately slackens.

He takes a ragged breath of air, shoulders shuddering, and then another; stumbles to his feet; ignores, with a flung hand, the concerned queries of passers-by, stopping on their way to pseudo-posh, over-priced restaurants to ask if he’s okay. Hand trembling, he reaches for his car-keys.

*

Aziraphale tends to his hair.

He exclaims and tuts and fusses when Crowley straggles in from the storm battering the UK – the proclamations of love and the echoes of arguments grating at him, like he’s a block of Cathedral Cheddar, up and down the street, leaving him stumbling up to the door, the timbre of their voices like timber falling on him. He barely remembers to park his Bentley outside with the proper protective shield (a miracle or three, but he is not risking his Bentley, not again; when you lose your car to the end of the world, only for your sort-of godson to give it back, well, there’s some things a demon simply won’t risk).

In here, he can _breathe._ Aziraphale detests visitors at this hour and his gentle fussing, complete with a large, white, fluffy towel – ‘Oh, Crowley, what am I going to _do_ with you?’ – _spreads,_ casts a glow over the place like a forcefield that keeps out the whole wretched world tonight, settles over Crowley like the blanket Aziraphale wraps around his shoulders, the towel in his hair, the heat of the fire and the cocoa pressed into his palms as he’s settled in front of the sofa.

He tilts his head back as Aziraphale sits behind him, pulls his hair out of the towel and runs his fingers through it; longer once more, longer for the Hell of it, longer because he felt like it, so there (longer because he loves the sensation of angelic fingers raking gently through it, like – like he doesn’t even know. A knife through butter? Tractors in a field? Crowley really doesn’t know; he doesn’t do similes very well, or whatever it is they even are. All he does know is that he really, _really_ likes it).

 _‘Honestly,’_ Aziraphale murmurs, his hands gentle against his scalp, ‘out in this weather – what _were_ you thinking, my dear? You could catch pneumonia.’

‘Hardly,’ Crowley scoffs, realising belatedly that he’s found his voice again – that he’s coming back together under these ministrations, this care. Aziraphale whacks him lightly on the shoulder for that, leaving him smirking; they sit in silence for a bit after that Crowley leaving Aziraphale to brush his hair out and leaning his head against his thigh, listens to _The Flower Duet_ (one of Aziraphale’s absolute favourites) trilling softly in the background on the vinyl player, crooning a soft sensuality as those skilled fingers work their way through his damp strands, detangling the knots and creating fresh streams, making pathways.

‘You really are quite lovely, my dear,’ he murmurs out of nowhere – in that strange way that Aziraphale conjures many odd things from nowhere, whether by accident or design – and Crowley smiles a little, a chuff of a thing, less assertive to that than he should be, considering.

Familiar fingers brush his neck as they pull his hair back over his shoulder in a neat line, leaving his throat exposed and he gasps a little as soft lips press right against the spot where he fancies his pulse-point might be – not meant to claim, but simply to comfort. The blanket that’s been bequeathed to him, the hot cocoa in its mug; it all speaks of care.

Demons aren’t supposed to _have_ care, but then, strictly speaking, angels aren’t supposed to care for demons, either. Turning his head, Crowley turns to nuzzle his nose against Aziraphale’s and kisses him properly, a simple seal of lips, large, steady palms squeezing his shoulders, reassuring. Closes his eyes as he feels those lips against his temple, his hair – how the angel seems to love his hair – his cheek, nuzzling against him like a friendly, protective cat.

‘Here,’ Aziraphale murmurs finally, reluctantly breaking the spell; gathers the top half of Crowley’s hair together in a plait behind and takes the band Crowley hands over; ties it together securely, with a smile and a flourish; skimming his fingers through the strands a few more times. Then he miracles up a small white daisy – a daisy! – and weaves it into the strands expertly, leaving Crowley rolling both his eyes and also his head to stare back at him.

 _‘Really,_ angel?’

Aziraphale taps him with his foot. ‘Oh, hush, dear. You’re my love,’ he says it in the most obvious tone possible, rebuking even, as though Crowley could ever be anything else. Well, he has been other things, of course he has – an angel, once upon a time, and then simply the best friend to one, and then: this. This, right here, which gives him a reason not to ask for anymore Holy Water; which keeps him alive. Leaves him seeking not insurance, but simple assurance and more of the attentions that Aziraphale lavishes upon him, as though he’s somehow deserving of them.

He hums, displacing that thought, placing a hand on Aziraphale’s knee. ‘Hell of a storm out there.’ Sighing, he looks up at the angel. ‘Do you think it’s something to do with…not-Armageddon?’

‘It’s possible,’ Aziraphale sighs, massaging distractedly at his scalp, ‘Potentially. Oh dear, and it was _such_ a lovely summer.’

‘Unless you count the Devil coming out of the ground,’ Crowley grins and Aziraphale raises his eyebrows at that, murmuring agreement. Turning, Crowley brushes his cheek against his knee. ‘Mind if I come up there?’

‘Of course, darling,’ Aziraphale proclaims in obvious surprise, beckoning him upright and Crowley clambers into his lap without a second thought, wrapping his arms around him with a smile. ‘You never have to ask.’

 _I want to, though,_ Crowley thinks, but doesn’t say. _You said once I go too fast for you; I know you love me, love us, but I never, ever want to do anything you don’t want me to do._ Ah well. They’ll figure it all out eventually; new part of the relationship and all that. They always do.

‘More cocoa?’ Aziraphale asks, as Crowley nuzzles into his neck.

‘Maybe later,’ Crowley murmurs, pressing their foreheads together and Aziraphale smiles, giggling, cups his face in one hand, the other wrapped securely around him to stop him falling, and kisses him; strokes his hair; shares the chocolates; whips his fingers around to conjure up a rose, velvet and blooming and perfect – proper magic, just for Crowley – and holds him, close and safe, for the rest of the night.

*


End file.
